Again
by Stupidityinavessel
Summary: Kaori Miyazono visits Arima Kousei one more time after her untimely death. Warning: This is the most cringeworthy thing that you could ever read. Beware of OOC characters and badly-executed angst...


A fear. Crawling into the cracks in the glass, playing out across the windows. He ran his fingers over the keys. His hands were shaking, he felt a tremble branching into his fingers, like the inevitable doom that spread through a cherry blossom tree in winter, silent as night and sly as a plague.  
The tree withered, its branches drooped, hanging low as if mourning its own demise. Its leaves, once lush and rich with hues of pink and white, turned to darkness and crumbled, dissolved into the night. The tree was planted deep within the depths of his heart, he felt its slow deterioration taking place, in a chilling diminuendo. He felt its roots breaking out of the ground and coiling around his throat from within, shattering his voice like the brittle glass in the music room windows. Running his finger over the old piano, drawing patterns in the dust collected on the keys. Too afraid to back away, too afraid to play. He traced the edges of the keys once again, for the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time that night. And then he heard something.  
A voice flowed through the darkness. Like a whisper, carried gently by the breeze. A fine breath circulating in the dry air of the music room. He brushed his fringe aside but didn't lift his head.

"Arima Kousei..."

The voice caressed his cheek and brushed against his neck like the fine golden hairs on her head did when he took her home on a bicycle.

"You idiot. Idiot Kousei."

His ears were playing tricks on him, he might as well be going crazy. His mind was clouded with fog. Perhaps because it was late at night, perhaps because he hadn't eaten anything in a while? Why was he hearing voices?

"Have you been playing the piano?"

A soft gust of wind curled its way around him, taunting him with those toxic words, so sincere and yet so sickening. He felt something hot prickling at the back of his eyes, and feeling them cloud over in an incandescent blur. Wet.  
"No." It escaped his lips in a tiny rasp.

"I knew it. You're feeling sorry for yourself."

Tears glazed his eyes, glistening in the darkness. They trickled down his cheeks in little streams. He stared up at the piano, its black frame, so magnificent under the fluorescent moonlight. It almost seemed iridescent.

"You're looking down again."

Those tears were like crystals, clear but broken, cracked and imperfect. They looked like tiny orbs on the piano keys, when they slid off his chin. He blinked them away and lifted a hand to the piano.

"We're all afraid, you know?"

A note resonated beneath the keys, tingling in his fingertips. A sound that rippled the stagnant air and echoed over and over in his ears.

"We risk our lives to struggle, because we're musicians, remember?"

More strings of notes followed, quiet yet loud. A sound that rang out in the silence, an ember in his fingers. It was a song that had no sheet music, no rules or directions to adhere to. It was a melody that had been buried away in the back of his mind since April.

"Did I reach you?"

He pounded the keys harder, producing a louder, harder, angrier sound that caused vibrations in his hands and broke the lonely atmosphere into mere shards. A sound that channeled his fury and resentment, and drowned out the whisper. He didn't want to hear it. He banged the keys so hard he felt his fingers losing their sense of touch, thousands of little needles piercing his skin. He didn't want to hear the voice. He wanted it to listen to him instead. Face his anger, face his music. He wanted it to hear the notes and listen to his voice in the melody. 'Why did you leave me, huh?' His music was practically screaming. Each breath was short and painful. The air was cold and seemed to slit little cuts in his throat when he inhaled.

"DID I REACH YOU?"

His voice wavered and trailed off, dissipated into his tears. Then he felt something touch his back. It was ghostly, but not chilling. It was warm. A hand that clung to his shirt and started a fire in his heart, sent away his worries and mended his broken voice.

"I did manage to live inside your heart, right, Kousei? Did I?"

He felt her breath, hot on his ears. He heard the voice with it, he knew it was her.

He didn't respond, but she knew what the answer was.

"Then of course it reached me."

The grip loosened, her touch melted away into the wind, he felt the fire in his heart burn out. But he continued playing. Less angry now, more gentle, the melodies danced on his fingertips. He knew this song, even though he'd never heard it before. In the sky, in the breeze, in the golden leaves of the cherry blossom tres, she knew it too. She was gone now, the voice and the touch and her rhythmic breathing. Yet he heard something humming the tune in the chilly night gale. A word they shared, a word that curled his lips into the ghost of a smile.

Again.

"I will play the piano. That's a promise."


End file.
